


Dead Things

by sinseeker (inperpetualreverie)



Category: J2 - Fandom, Supernatural RPF, j2 fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Angsty Schmoop, Forbidden Love, Love, M/M, Soulmates, Zombie!Jared, Zombies, zombie fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2018-04-25 12:52:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4961344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inperpetualreverie/pseuds/sinseeker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The living and the dead don't belong together, but Jared doesn't know that and Jensen doesn't care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dead Things

**Author's Note:**

> This just sort of popped into my head, so I haven't gotten very far. Apologies for the short first chapter. Comments and kudos are love. Feedback is appreciated! Love to all of you. Thanks for reading!

It was 5pm on the third day before I noticed the hunger – well, the lack of. I shrugged it off. It wasn’t the first time I’d gone a few days without eating. By the fifth day, I still wasn’t hungry. I should have felt it then, that strange thing where your stomach feels like it’s eating itself. But I didn’t feel it. I didn’t feel anything, really, except annoyed. I opened the fridge, then all of the cabinets, then the fridge again. The food was there, but I didn’t want it. I wanted to want it, but the thought of taking a single bite of anything just sparked the annoyance again.  

There’s a saying where I’m from. _Dead things don’t belong here. And dead things don’t eat._ There are a lot of dead things where I’m from, and if you ask me, they’re far more interesting than any of the living. Dead things. That’s what they call them, like they’re not people anymore. Like they never were. Like they’re nothing. They’re the ones who’ve changed, turned into something else, something the living don’t like.

And there are things that I am absolutely, positively, certain about. One: My name is Jensen Ackles and I turned sixteen today. Two: I haven’t been able to stomach a bite of food for five days. And three: Dead things don’t eat.

My interest in dead things started when I was young. I met one. A special one. He was outside, just standing in the dark, peering into my bedroom window, looking lost. I wanted to invite him in, but I didn’t. Because dead things don’t belong here. Dead things don’t belong here, but there he was, looking at me looking back at him. This staring contest with the dead thing lasted as long as it took for me to decide I wanted a closer look at it. At him. He was a boy, about my age. Ten, probably. But he looked older than I did. Paler. More worse for wear.

I crept through my bedroom window, slowly, carefully. Well, as carefully as a ten year old can be when he’s about to come face to face with a thing that lives but isn’t really living. I wasn’t afraid. I should have been. Even the adults were afraid, they had to be. Why else would there be so many rules about staying away from dead things? _Never play with a dead thing, Jensen. Never ever. They’re not like you, and you don’t want to be like them. It’s not right. They’re not right. Dead things don’t belong here._  
  
But I never was one for following rules, so out the window I went, and that night I found my very own dead thing. Or he found me. Or we found each other.

I met him, but he didn’t speak. Neither did I. It wasn’t necessary. He barely moved. Just stood there, watching me with a pair of eyes that didn’t belong on a dead thing. No dead thing I’d ever seen anyway. They were too bright. Too beautiful. Too _alive_.  So neither of us spoke that night. But I didn’t have to hear him to know he’d forever be my dead thing, and I didn’t need to tell him that I would be his friend. It just happened that way, as some things do.

And it kept happening. Every night he’d come to my window. Every night I’d climb out to meet him. Every night he’d look through me with those undead eyes, and every night I’d be mesmerized by them.  

His name was Jared once. _Jared_. It took him a week to finally speak to me. I wasn’t even sure he could speak at all. It took him a whole week, but he looked at me at the end of that week, with those kaleidoscope eyes, pointed at his own chest with a thin, shaky finger, and stammered out a name. Ja-ared. I smiled that night because he told me his name. He smiled back because he didn’t know that dead things don’t have names.

And so it began as all stories must. Jared became my dead thing, and I became his friend. His Jensen. His.

It was a secret, our friendship. It had to be. The dead and the living don’t belong together. The dead don’t belong at all. But Jared didn’t know that. He didn’t need to. He had me, and I had him, and nothing about the two of us was supposed to be right, but it was. It was. Dead things can’t feel, but my dead thing was different. My dead thing had a name, and the eyes of the living, and he didn’t need to know that he wasn’t supposed to belong.

Jared and I spent every night together. I didn’t know what he did during the day. I asked him once, and all he did was smile that stupid smile, and I honestly didn’t care, not really, so long as he kept showing up at my bedroom window when the sun had gone down.

He never really spoke much either. His vocabulary seemed pretty limited to my name, which he never seemed to grow tired of muttering. He’d say it, and his eyes would look even more alive, like the very thought of me kept that part of him living.


End file.
